Plot Medics 

This is a very old, unfinished story, disinterred, gutted, and refleshed.

I was eighteen and as wild as the ocean when I met Maximilian. My sisters and I used to go barefoot into town, our hair blowing behind us like banners, sea salt on our lips. We were creatures of a different element to the people who herded their children past, burdened with rubber rings and windbreaks and lotions to block out the sun. 

Max’s eyes were the blue of a summer sea and he strode the promenade with the assurance of a prince.  His beauty put a hook in my soul; I felt it tugging at me as I dashed past with my sisters, pulling my gaze back to him.

I told my grandmother all about him the next night as she wove white flowers in my red hair and forced me into the high-heeled shoes that pinched my feet.  “Handsome is as handsome does,” she said.  “Now go along with your sisters, Stella, and sing your best.”

Our voices rose in the faded theatre, ebbed and flowed, rang out like ships’ bells. Max sat in the front row, a faraway look on his face. He waited for me outside the theatre.

“From now on, you’ll only sing for me,” he said. “And I’ll turn your voice into gold.”

My sisters laughed at him. They sung for whom they pleased. But I agreed, and he was right.

By our wedding day, he was rich, his music label famous.  Max pricked his finger pinning on his buttonhole flower. As he placed the gold band on my finger, a drop of his blood smeared there, looking black in the stained glass light.

When I tried to sing at the reception, nothing but a croak came out.

“Never mind,” said Max, smiling at me. “It doesn’t matter now.” I looked into his calm eyes and knew he’d be my anchor. He hasn’t changed a bit since then.

The package of  dye came in the post this morning. I don’t know where from. Perhaps one of my sisters sent it.

Yesterday I was sitting here, brushing out my hair, wondering when it got so grey. I wore the clothes that Max chose for me; grey wool skirt, grey cashmere jumper, pearls around my neck. I looked around our room with its magnolia walls, and beige carpet, and black and white photos and decided I was going to dye my hair red again. It took me half an hour to open the front door. I paced the shining parquet of the hall, and paused with my hand hovering over the doorknob, fear drumming in my chest. Finally, I went out.

I’m a long way from my sisters now, living in a maze of concrete and brick. Noone goes barefoot here. Noone strolls. I tiptoed along the streets like a woman walking on knives. The air tasted of rubber and tarmac and dirt, and I coughed and coughed until I was hoarse. I went into the chemist’s and read the warnings on the boxes of dyes, about rashes and open cuts and damage to your eyes. I wanted to ask the woman behind the counter about them, but she looked me up and down, and when I opened my mouth I couldn’t make anything come out. I tiptoed back home again as fast as I could go.  So this morning, I smiled when I found the package.

I’ve made sure the house is spotless, except for the bathroom; I’ll do that after the dye. Max doesn’t work hard all day to come home to a messy place. I gather up the package, and some old towels and a comb and go into our white bathroom. I’ve never taken my wedding ring off, but perhaps I should for this? Max told me it was unique, specially made. I twist it hard, but it’s stuck. It doesn’t move with soap, so on it will stay.

There are instructions in the dye package, written in a copperplate hand. They tell me that once I put it on, the dye will take some time to work. For the first time in a long time, I get my battered old radio out of its hiding place at the back of the wardrobe, a little music to keep me company. My condition, as Max calls it, hasn’t changed since the wedding reception. When I try to sing, I can only croak like a frog. Sales of my records soared when he announced that there could never be any more. Max bought me a platinum ankle chain to celebrate. He told me the sales would only peak higher if I died.

Inside the package are several bottles. One of them smells of salt and breezes, seaweed oil I think. Another is sealed up with wax and I have to get a sharp knife from the kitchen to open it, and a bowl to mix in. I feel like a witch as stir the dye potion. I massage it into to my hair, and comb it through.  The radio plays one of my favourite songs, and I croak along until my voice becomes a whisper. I’ve been been so careful, but there are red splashes all over the bathroom. It’s going to take a while to clean, but Max comes home late these days. He’s making a move from business to politics. His friends tell me he’s got a silver tongue, and he’s rising fast. He can talk anybody round.

I get into the shower to rinse out the colour. It is as though I am standing in a frothing bath of blood. I rinse it all down the drain and comb out my hair.  I open the window to let out the steam, go into the bedroom and put on some old clothes. I bend under the sink to get out the bleach and the scrubbing brush, and when I stand up there is a young woman in the bathroom with me, hair redder than a danger signal. Just my reflection in the mirror over the sink, but her expression is furious.

“What are you doing?” she says.

I think about it as I scrub the walls and I turn the radio up louder.

I don’t hear Max come in until he is behind me in the room. There are still old towels piled about, the dirty bowl, the bottles, the knife. But he doesn’t even notice the mess. He’s staring at my hair.

“You’ll have to change that back,” he says. “It’s not the right look for the newest MP’s wife.”

“I don’t think I can,” I say.

“Never mind,” he says. “We’ll get it cut. Something sensible.” Max strokes my head gently, then there is a tug and a swish. He has picked up the knife and sliced off great lengths of my hair.

“No!” I shout. I shove at Max, surprising him enough to grab the knife. I make a cut on my finger above my wedding ring, blood flows and now the ring slips loose.  I throw it to the floor, scramble away from Max’s grasp.

Max looks up at me, his eyes pleading. They are still the blue of a summer sea, but now I see the surface glitter and the cold depths. He opens his mouth, and nothing but a thin croak comes out.

Outside, the dirty air is filled with blackbird song. My voice rises to meet it, ringing like a ship’s bell as I go to find my sisters.